Hot Dog Vendor Cooking Up Success

WINTER PARK — They sit under palm trees to gab about politics and sports but admit that it is the man selling hot dogs who lures them out into the humid, 90-degree day.

The unlikely Winter Park eatery is The Doghouse by Chuck at Orange Avenue and U.S. Highway 17-92. From a corner of pavement, offered gratis by Car Tunes car stereos, Chuck Knichel dispenses White Rock cream sodas, soft drinks and New York Sabrett's.

An unmistakable aroma rises from the boiling water infused with garlic and spices that distinguish the all-beef hot dogs and sausages from competitors' offerings. The aroma mixes with the diesel and gasoline fumes from the busy intersection, while the street cafe of sorts draws a devoted crowd.

Knichel is a native of East Rutherford, N.J., a veteran bartender, maitre d' and magician who can conjure up a neighborhood tavern, candy store or filling station where locals gather to quench their thirst and tell their tales.

He is easy to find, with his Coors Light baseball cap, gray T-shirt, shorts, white running shoes and apron.

People who see his moustache and jowls may think of Ralph Kramden, but the connection seems too easy until he says his wife's name is Alice. Not given to hyperbole, Knichel, 50, raves about ''28 glorious years with Alice, three beautiful children and four adorable grandchildren.''

Except for Sundays, Knichel can usually be found in the kitchen, an area bounded by the shiny aluminum cart shaded with the yellow and blue umbrella and a rubber bartender's mat. His logo is an illustrated frankfurter in top hat and cane. If you do something, he will tell you, do it with flair and style.

He glances toward the wooden planter that doubles as his seating area. He recently persuaded his landlord, Steve Brill of Car Tunes, to landscape the corner planter so it would fit with the neighborhood.

''It's about time he put some money in the dining room,'' Knichel says.

Nearby is a putting green: a putter, four golf balls and a yellow plastic cup on a 6- by 10-foot indoor-outdoor carpet remnant.

He jokes with potential patrons waiting at the stoplight, but complains that they drive by, ''procrastinating, procrastinating, procrastinating . . . ''

Suddenly, five people line up. Knichel quickens the pace into repetitive motions. With a pair of tongs, he takes a hot dog from boiling water, slips it into a roll, spreads chili and mustard and wraps it in waxed paper. His hand reaches into icy water and emerges, on the first try, with the root beer that has been ordered.

''He's very organized,'' says Alice, who often stops by during the lunch hour. As if on cue, she moves to the cart, filling soda orders, restocking buns and stuffing napkins and straws into paper bags for orders to go.

A frustrated entertainer who learned about bar patrons by observing body language and drinking habits, Knichel, in 17 months, has delivered one-liners to a thousand customers, including a Saturday clientele built on weekday regulars who want to show their families ''the hot dog guy I told you about.'' Within minutes, the crowd slackens. Knichel polishes the top of the cart with a bartender's cloth, wipes his brow, and smiles at his police pals.